Mother, I cut away the threads you tied around my wings. Such pretty wings, such pretty rainbow feathers. But what use are wings that do not fly? I grew tired of floating as a zeppelin above your head, your pretty perfect parrot, to tug when you pleased.

Dear Mother, I have to go. I'm shivering, but not from what lies before, but the stasis that remains behind. Deja vu threatens to swallow me up like the whale. I must move to the mountains and live like a wild woman in the forests. I will swing from tree to tree, loose my clips, bobbles and braids so that African explorers will compile a study on my wild hair.

I will sharpen my teeth on an anvil and drink the blood of bats, bash their brains out as though I were a squirrel cracking a soft, fleshy shell. I will skin a lion and wear her fur as a cloak, spell the future in her entrails. This is a world so much more humane than the world I leave behind. There will be no more sheets of flesh compressed inside sheaves of cellophane. First you kill a cow then you kill a cow then you kill a cow. Whatever you do, don't let it live before it dies. Don't let it feel hate and anger; numb it with a hypodermic needle so that it feels nothing at all. Don't worry sweetie- it's so drugged it won't even know its dead. The last thing I'll do before I slash his throat is let him see my face. So that we're even, so that in the afterlife he'll know upon whom he must cast his revenge. An eye for an eye; tooth for a tooth. I'll push away my hair and let him drink from the font of my neck, sink his teeth into a bubbling brook of blood. I am the queen of the vampires. Now watch, fix your eyes upon me! The glare of the hot spotlight is burning my eyes and skin. Now behold, as she performs a double barrel roll, and without a net. I am the sparrow who has pecked off its own wings; I do not want to be caught.

The fall is the best part. Letting yourself go. Pushing away hands. Pushing away saviours. I am no damsel in distress; for one thing, I made the jump myself. You cannot bring me back. Mother, I cut away the threads you tied around my wings. Such pretty wings, such pretty rainbow feathers. But what use are wings that do not fly? I grew tired of floating like a zeppelin above your head, your pretty perfect parrot, to tug when you pleased. I ripped out my feathers and put them in a blender. When that did not work, I mutilated myself with a carving knife. I cut and cut and cut and screamed till there were nothing left but bloody stumps and bloody feathers. I would have torn out the roots if I had to. I would have torn out my heart.

Roll up, roll up! Watch as she sways, drunk on death, poised like a ballerina before the chasm, to dive down, down, into a pool of her own blood.

Do not worry Mother; I will not drown. I have learned to breath underwater. When he held me under, my lungs had shrunk—he was so heavy I could hardly breathe. I sank into the pavement and my roots began to spread, became so fixed to the ground that dwarves had to dig me out. I have no use for man and his heavy hands; I will have intercourse with trees. And she! What use is she? Lying back and waiting to be destroyed? I shall destroy myself.

All this time I have only existed as his shadow. I ghosted from place to place, and spoke only from a script. I was the runner who ran a marathon but didn't budge a single inch. I won first place and filled the cup with sorrow and you put it on the mantelpiece, Mother. But it speaks not of winning, only of loss. I was too terrified to speak and too timid to reply. I mocked the women who wore veils and lived out of a slit, but my own face was constructed from plaster. An expressionate face is too ugly; the expressions it makes do not correspond with your magazines. Just smile, darling. I broke a smile and it broke my soul. Now I've torn up my clothes and torn out my hair. Snapped my mascara in two and penned you a suicide note in crimson lipstick. R.I.P, our love. See me run through the streets naked and ugly; you'll soon see I do not care. You tried to mould me into a living doll. You thought you could do what you want with me. But I am Frankenstein's monster; my limbs move with a groan, my lips creak. And, ah! It is alive! But I am no blow up sex doll. I do not come with a puncture patch. Frankenstein was the creator, not the monster. It's a common mistake; but who was the monster, really?

The thorn in my paw only grows more painful. Always, it is in the corner of my eye. Oh Mother, do you not have some salve? But the strings are cut. I must brew my own remedies. On the fire I toss a cauldron. Toss in aconite, bloodroot, opium. The flames will be my slaves. I'll bake him a cake made of poison and love. But it is my birthday; please, please, let me have the first slice.

Do not fret Mother; you did not raise me wrong. But a child of wolves will always be a child of wolves; you cannot teach her to sit at the table. You used words like Civilisation and Society, and took me from my suckling brothers, dressed me in a gown and said; Look at this wolf! I have made her human. She is my very own pet; my darling lamb. The cameras flashed and journalists squawked, but then, and forever after, I still howled at the moon. The legend lies; there were three. Remus and Romulus and Rubella.

Mother, I would write to you. I would carve a pen out of bamboo and fill it with blood of oxen. I would write on a frame of tanned, leathered tiger. But Mother, I do not think the postman collects from oblivion.

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